Chapter 3_ The Second Claim

Mira pov

The belt pressed against my throat. Cool leather. A question that hung in the air between us, heavier than the city lights spilling through the windows.

My pulse beat against the restraint.

"Do I trust you?" My voice came out steadier than I expected. "I'm in your penthouse. My dress is around my hips. You have my panties in your pocket."

His smile was slow, dangerous. "That's not an answer."

"It's the closest you're going to get."

He studied me. Those storm-gray eyes traced my face like he was reading something written just beneath my skin. Then he pulled the belt away, dropping it to the floor.

"Good enough."

His mouth found mine. Not gentle. Not asking. His tongue swept against my lower lip before I could exhale, and I opened for him, pulling him closer. The weight of his body pressed me into the sheets, the heat of his chest through his unbuttoned shirt.

I wanted him naked.

I pushed the fabric from his shoulders, and he shrugged it off, never breaking the kiss. My hands found his skin—warm, hard, the muscles of his back shifting under my palms. He groaned into my mouth when my nails raked down his spine.

"Impatient," he murmured.

"You've been doing all the work." I hooked my fingers into the waistband of his trousers. "My turn."

His laugh was low, rough. "Is that so?"

I flipped him.

He let me.

The surprise on his face lasted a fraction of a second before it shifted into something darker, more curious. I straddled his hips, the fabric of his trousers rough against my bare thighs. The dress bunched around my waist, forgotten.

"Now who's on their knees?" I said.

"You're on top."

"Same difference."

His hands found my hips, gripping hard. The heat in his eyes made my breath catch. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

"Show me."

He sat up in one fluid motion, his chest against mine, his arms wrapping around my back. The new angle pressed him against me, and I felt the hard length of him through the wool of his trousers.

My hips rocked forward without permission.

His breath hissed through his teeth. "Careful."

"Or what?"

"Or this ends before it starts."

I wanted to push him. Wanted to see how far his control stretched. But the hunger in his voice told me I was already dancing on the edge of something I couldn't walk back from.

"Then don't let it end," I said.

His hands slid down, gripping my ass, lifting me. He rolled, and I was on my back again, his body covering mine, his mouth at my throat.

"You're going to kill me," he said against my skin.

"That seems dramatic."

"I don't do dramatic. I do precise." His teeth grazed my collarbone. "I do thorough. I do repeatedly."

I gasped as he bit down, just hard enough to leave a mark.

His hand slid between us, finding the button of his trousers. He didn't rush. The metal slipped free. The zipper lowered. He shifted, and I felt him against my thigh—bare, hot, ready.

"Look at me," he said.

I did.

His eyes were nearly black. "If you want to stop, you tell me now. Not later. Now."

I reached between us, wrapping my fingers around him. He was velvet and steel, and the sound he made when I squeezed—low, broken—sent a thrill through my chest.

"I don't want to stop."

He lowered himself, the head of him pressing against my entrance. I held my breath. He held my gaze.

Then he pushed inside.

The world narrowed to that single point of contact. The stretch. The fullness. The way he filled me inch by inch, never breaking eye contact, watching my face like my pleasure was a language he was learning syllable by syllable.

"Fuck," he breathed.

I couldn't speak. Couldn't think. There was only the sensation of him inside me, the weight of him above me, the way he held himself still—waiting, letting me adjust—even though the muscles in his arms trembled with restraint.

"Move," I whispered.

He did.

Slow at first. Deep, deliberate strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, dropping his forehead to mine.

"Like that," he said, his voice wrecked. "Just like that."

His pace quickened. The room filled with the sound of skin against skin, the creak of the bed, my gasps and his grunts. He reached between us, his thumb finding my clit, pressing hard.

I shattered.

The orgasm hit me like a wave I hadn't seen coming, pulling me under, dragging me down. I heard myself cry out, felt my body clench around him, and he followed—his hips stuttering, his groan buried in my shoulder.

We lay there, tangled, breathing hard.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he lifted his head, his eyes finding mine. The storm was back. Calm. Satisfied.

"That," he said, "was the second."

I laughed, breathless. "You're keeping count?"

He kissed me, slow and deep. When he pulled back, his thumb traced my lower lip.

"I told you. I'm thorough."

My body hummed. My mind was a blur of heat and static and the weight of him still half-inside me.

"How many," I managed, "are you planning for?"

His smile was dark, devastating.

"All of them."

His thumb still traced my lip, a slow, deliberate promise. I turned my head, catching the digit between my teeth. Not hard. Just enough to make his eyes narrow.

"All of them," I repeated, the words muffled around his skin. "That's a lot of numbers."

"I'm a patient man." He pulled his thumb free, dragging it wet across my bottom lip. "And I have a very long night planned."

He shifted, pulling out of me with a slowness that made me shiver. The absence was its own kind of ache. Before I could mourn it, he was on his knees between my legs, his hands gripping my thighs and spreading them wide.

The city lights painted his skin in gold and shadow. He looked at me—not my face, but there—with the focus of a man studying a map he intended to memorize.

"What are you doing?" My voice was hoarse.

"Checking something." His thumb pressed against my slick center, circling once. "Making sure you're ready."

"I'm ready."

"Noted." He leaned down, and his mouth replaced his thumb. Hot. Wet. The first stroke of his tongue made my back arch off the mattress. "But I want to taste it first."

His hands held me open, and he worked with a methodical hunger that left me gasping. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling, and he groaned against me, the vibration sending sparks up my spine.